


The Most Plasters on One Person Ever in The History of Plasters on People

by afinecollector (orphan_account)



Series: Kidlock Oneshots [6]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Big Brothers, Brotherly Love, Comfort, Cute, Fluff, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Kid!Lock, Kidlock, Love, Mycroft is a stellar big brother, Sweet, Village life, Young Sherlock Holmes - Freeform, h/c
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-29
Updated: 2016-08-29
Packaged: 2018-08-11 21:40:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,805
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7908562
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/afinecollector
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mycroft made a shocked face, “That has to be the most plasters on one person ever in the history of plasters on people.” </p><p>Sherlock widened his eyes, “Do you think?” </p><p>“Oh I’m certain,” Mycroft nodded as he took the outer wrappers off of one plaster and stuck it down over Sherlock’s right knee. “I don’t think there is anything to date in any of Dad’s books about boys having so many plasters.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Most Plasters on One Person Ever in The History of Plasters on People

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Mary_Jo_Holmes](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mary_Jo_Holmes/gifts).



> Gifted to Mary_Jo_Holmes because I'm very, very sorry.

The sun shone bright and the sky was a clear, cloudless blue. Summer holidays were always Sherlock’s favourite time; Mycroft was home from school, his father worked a lot less, and Mummy was always in a better mood because she had her family together again. It was close to eleven am, and Mycroft had agreed to meet his mother in the village with Sherlock - she’d left a little earlier, while Sherlock was ‘far too busy’ building up his lego, and Mycroft had said he didn’t mind the delay if it prevented her being late (and avoided Sherlock throwing a tantrum). 

“Mikey, wait for me…” Sherlock called out, five steps behind his brother as they walked through the village. Sherlock sped up, skipping to catch up with Mycroft who had stopped walking and turned. Sherlock came to a halt beside his brother and reached up, taking the hand Mycroft held out to him. “You were going very fast, Mikey.” 

Mycroft smiled down at the six-year-old, “Sorry, ‘Lock.” He said, shaking Sherlock’s arm where he held his small hand inside of his own. “I thought you were running, anyway?” He asked as they walked on. 

Sherlock frowned up at him and shook his head, “My feet got tired.” 

“Mummy’s waiting for us at the Regal, just beside the library. She said if we get to her on time, and she finishes at the bank before lunch, we can go to the library and check out that book you wanted before we go home.” Mycroft told him. In four days, Sherlock would turn seven and he had asked for nothing more for his birthday than to get the Pete the Pirate book from the library. Of course, his family had planned more for him, but they hadn’t let on as much and Sherlock, such as his obsession was sated by the promise of the book, was not expectant of anything else. 

Sherlock shrieked a little in excitement, “Do you think Mummy will let us have cake at the cafe?” 

Mycroft smiled - ever since he was four, Sherlock had loved having ‘coffee and cake’ at the Regal with their mother on Saturday afternoons. It had become a sort of ritual, a tradition, and Sherlock often became a little upset if it couldn’t happen for any reason. Sherlock didn’t have coffee, of course, that was substituted for a hot chocolate with cream and sprinkles, but the whole affair was still referenced as going for ‘coffee and cake’. “Perhaps,” Mycroft nodded. “Maybe we could get cake to bring home for after lunch?” 

Sherlock nodded, happy with that idea, and switched his walk to a skip as Mycroft’s steps seemed to speed up. He waited patiently on Mycroft’s request as they came to a pavement dip and prepared to cross the main village road, needing to be on the opposite side for the cafe and library. On Mycroft’s say-so, he checked his left and right and crossed the road with steady steps, his hand still linked in Mycroft’s. 

“I was good at crossing the road, Mikey…” Sherlock said, hitching his shorts up with his free hand. “I looked left and right, and I didn’t go until it was safe.” 

Mycroft nodded his head and peered down at his brother, “Yep - you did well. Perhaps when you’ve had your birthday, you and I can walk into the village and you can tell me when it’s safe to cross, instead of me telling you?” 

Sherlock opened his eyes wide, then squinted at the sun as he looked up at Mycroft. He nodded his head jerkily in excitement. “I can do that!” He swung his arms as he walked, jerking Mycroft’s shoulder a little - not that the older Holmes minded - and chatted idly as they walked into the main street of the village centre. “...I read in one of Dad’s books that there was a great big shark once, in all the oceans, called a Megaladon.” He said with fierce animation. “It was the biggest shark that was ever around, but it went ‘stinct with the dinosaurs.” 

“Really?” Mycroft asked, wiggling Sherlock’s hand. “Was it awfully big?” 

“The biggest one ever!” Sherlock repeated, “Bigger than even a Great White shark, I think.” 

“That _is_ big.” Mycroft agreed. “Oh, look, there’s Mummy’s car parked in the bay outside of the Regal. Do you want to run the rest of the way, meet Mummy inside?” 

Sherlock nodded and twisted his hand free of Mycroft’s. “I’ll beat you!” he called as he began to run, his pace not all that fast but enough to bring him four or fives strides ahead of Mycroft. 

“I bet!” Mycroft called out as Sherlock’s feet slapped against the pavement. He smiled, watching Sherlock’s arms wail from side to side as he raced, his hair flying backwards in the breeze his speed created. But with a sudden thunk!, and a scrambling of his limbs, Sherlock’s ankles locked over one another and he fell, chin first, onto the pavement just outside of the cafe door. Mycroft’s stomach sank and he picked up his pace, jogging the short way to where his brother lay on the floor, beginning to cry but trying his hardest not to wail. 

“Ow...ow...oh...ow…” Sherlock’s breaths came in short, shocked huffs as he pushed himself up, sitting on the pavement, with his skinned knees on show, his scuffed palms held out in front of him, and a graze on his chin that was beginning to pool tiny droplets of blood. “Mikey…” He looked up as Mycroft got to his side. “...ow…” 

Mycroft was amazed - how Sherlock didn’t have a shining eye or knocked-out teeth was beyond him. He bent his knees and crouched in front of his little brother. “Oh, ‘Lock…” he said, pushing Sherlock’s hair from his forehead as Sherlock’s tears finally spilled down over his freckled cheeks. “Come on,” He pushed himself up and bent at the waist, lifting Sherlock up under the arms. “I’m sure Mrs Hunter will have a first aid box inside the cafe.” He hoisted Sherlock onto his hip and held him there as Sherlock held his stinging hands out in front of him; he looked impossibly young with his lower lip sticking out and quivering. 

Mycroft used his hip to butt open the door into the quaint little cafe, and immediately their mother spotted them. At her small table beside the counter, she got to her feet and held out her arms to her youngest. “Oh, Locky, sweetheart. What happened to you?” She captured him and pulled him over, hooking one arm under his bottom as she held him on her hip, and cradled the other behind his back. “You poor boy.” 

“He slipped over, just outside…” Mycroft pointed back to the door. “He’s being really brave, though.” 

“Yes he is,” His mother held him closely. 

Sherlock pushed up against her hold, “My mouth hurts…” He said, lifting his chin to show her the graze (that could have been much worse, in Mycroft’s opinion). 

“Oh, my baby.” She held him close again. 

“Mrs Hunter,” Mycroft approached the counter as his mother took Sherlock to her table, and sat him in the first vacant chair. “Do you have a first aid kit? Sherlock fell outside.” 

The rotund woman behind the counter made a sympathetic face in Sherlock’s direction. “Of course I do, Mycroft love. It’s back in the kitchen, I’ll fetch it out.” 

Mycroft lingered at the counter until she returned, and thanked her with a smile as she handed it over to him. He took the green box to his mother and Sherlock and laid it on the table. He unhooked the tabs and flicked the stocked box open. He fished through its contents and pulled out a strip of three antiseptic wipes and a box of plasters. 

“It’ll be a bit stingy, ‘Lock,” Mycroft pre warned him as he ripped off the end of one of the packets of wipes and pulled it from the foil. He began with Sherlock’s knees, gently sweeping the wipes over the grazes filled with little bits of gravel until they no longer looked bloody and dirty, simply red and skinned. Cleaning Sherlock’s hands proved to be the more painful part, Sherlock withdrew his arms more than once as Mycroft held them by the fingers, gently dabbing at the deeper grazes on the heels of his hands. Before long, the grazes were clean and Mycroft could see just why they stung so much - not quite worthy of stitches, the cuts were clean but deep and continued to bleed. The graze across his chin proved easier to clean, two swipes of the wipe in his hand and Mycroft had removed the tiny flecks of gravel and the bleeding had stopped. It would bruise though, he was certain. 

“I want plasters on everywhere…” Sherlock insisted, his words hitching a little as he continued to try not to sob out loud. 

Mycroft smiled and nodded his head, “Two on your knees, two on your hands, one on your chin. Five whole plasters on one person!” Mycroft made a shocked face, “That has to be the most plasters on one person ever in the history of plasters on people.” 

Sherlock widened his eyes, “Do you think?” 

“Oh I’m certain,” Mycroft nodded as he took the outer wrappers off of one plaster and stuck it down over Sherlock’s right knee. “I don’t think there is anything to date in any of Dad’s books about boys having so many plasters.” 

Sherlock smiled through his tears, watching Mycroft’s long fingers as he fixed another plaster to the opposite knee, then gently stuck them down over the heels of his hands. He lifted his head, and looked down as far as he could to see if he could watch Mycroft fix the plaster to his chin - he couldn’t see a thing beyond the curve at the end of his nose and his eyelashes. 

“I think you’re perhaps the bravest boy we’ve had in the cafe all years, Sherlock.” Mrs Hunter said, smiling at them from behind the counter. “And if it’s okay with Mummy, I think it’s fair to say you’ve earned a Chocolate Eclair.” 

Sherlock widened his eyes and looked up to his mother, “Oh! Mummy...I want a cake!” 

She smiled at her son, and pushed his hair back from his face with both of her hands. “Of course you can have a cake, little soldier.” She helped him down from the chair and watched him rush to the patisserie window along the counter to pick out his cake. She wrapped her arm around Mycroft’s slim waist. “You, my lovely, are perhaps the best big brother in the world.” 

Mycroft regarded her with a side glance and a shrug. “Sherlock’s special; you’ve just got to know how to talk to him.”


End file.
